The Unkindest Cut of All
by Sue
Summary: On a beautiful summer afternoon, seven-year-old Faramir and twelve-year-old Boromir would rather have fun than get their hair cut. But their plan to find a way around their governess' order doesn't quite work out as they had hoped. Complete!
1. Chapter One

DISCLAIMER: The characters used in this story are owned by the Tolkien estate. I am making no money from their use.

THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL

"Come on, little brother! Hurry up!"  
  
As he walked swiftly down the crowded city street, the tall twelve-year-old glanced behind him, blinking against the bright mid-afternoon summer sun. Around him swirled the bustle of Minas Tirith citizens, the air filled with the din of their talk and laughter as they traversed along the avenue of merchants.  
  
Few of these people paid much attention to the handsome young man in the black and silver livery of a Gondorian cadet as he stopped in his tracks, peered down the street with a tense look of exasperation, and sternly exclaimed "Faramir!"  
  
In a few seconds, a slender boy of seven years appeared from among the throng, his large blue eyes wide and innocent as he trotted up. Like the first boy, he was somewhat tall for his age, his figure topped off with a large mop of reddish-gold curls that hung below his shoulders. In one hand he held a stick of green candy.  
  
"I'm sorry, Boromir," he piped up, running. "I was looking in the window at the bookseller's."  
  
"You'll have time for that later," chided Boromir, putting one hand on the child's shoulder before they both started back off at a hurried pace. His tone was firm but light. "If we don't reach Mistress Darwain's parlor soon, we'll be too late, and we'll never hear the end of it from Lady Allaneth."  
  
Faramir gave a dramatic sigh of irritation. "Why did our Governess have to tell us to have our hair cut now? I was almost done with my book!" He began sucking on the candy stick once more to console himself.  
  
"You know very well," replied the older boy as they worked their way down the busy thoroughfare. "Father is returning home from Rohan tomorrow, and she felt we should look our best. Although," he added in a more rueful voice, "I do agree with you about her timing. I was dearly hoping to try out the new sword Father gave me."  
  
They began to pass through the main market square of the third level. Bright sunlight splashed across the white buildings, cutting deep shadows across the glistening surfaces of the ancient stone.  
  
"Besides," continued Boromir as they walked, dragging one black-gloved hand through his long, straight blonde hair, "I don't believe my hair has grown too long. Yours, though," here he stopped and looked at the mop of curls cascading from the head of his brother, "if we don't have your locks trimmed, people will start to think you're my little _sister_!" He grinned and gently tugged on one stray curl.  
  
Faramir laughed and stepped back. "That nice lady at the sweet shop knew I was a boy!" he protested, and stuck out his tongue at his brother. It was streaked with the color from the candy. "She even said I was ad...adorable and gave me this candy."  
  
Boromir grunted, smiling, as they resumed their journey. "That 'lady' is no older than I am, and she only knew you were a boy because she knows you're my brother," he said as they walked.  
  
"We wouldn't have to run now if you hadn't spent all that time talking to her," Faramir observed.  
  
"It wasn't that long," insisted Boromir, only the slightest hint of irritation in his voice.  
  
Faramir's grin around the candy stick grew wider. "You _like_ her."  
  
His brother glared back at him. "Be still and hurry - you know how busy Mistress Darwain is, we have to run if we want to have her cut our hair today. And Rinonan is just a friend."  
  
"Mmm-hmmm," was Faramir's unbelieving response. He was still smiling widely. "She just gave me the candy to keep me busy so you two could talk all day. She likes you, too, I could tell. She had that funny look in her eyes, just like you did."  
  
Boromir stopped in his tracks, turned around, put his hands on his knees, and bent down so he could look the grinning seven-year-old straight in his blue eyes.  
  
"You, little brother, are far too smart for your age," he stated, smiling himself just a little. "One day when you grow up, you'll get that 'funny look' about a lady as well, and then I shall tease _you_ to distraction. We'll see how you like that!"  
  
Faramir looked at him with his huge blue eyes and laughed a little around the candy stick.  
  
"Now come," Boromir said, standing. They began to walk again. "We've only a few hours until dinner."  
  
The younger boy sighed again. "Why did Father have to take his groom with him?" he wondered aloud. "It takes Mistress Darwain _forever_ to cut hair."  
  
"I know," Boromir replied somewhat wearily. "I'm not looking forward to all those perfumes and pomades she uses, either - a soldier of Gondor such as myself shouldn't walk around smelling like a rose garden. But the Governess will know if we don't have this done, so, it must be done. I suppose the books and the swords will have to wait." He sounded particularly sad by the end of his statement.  
  
Faramir licked his candy thoughtfully. "Too bad you aren't a barber of Gondor. Then you could cut our hair yourself."  
  
Silence fell for a few minutes, but it soon became apparent that their walking had slowed. Boromir's expression became very focused, his green eyes distant as he thought very hard about something. His steps slowed until he stopped. Faramir stopped as well, and looked up at his older brother expectantly.  
  
"Well, you know," murmured Boromir intently, "we could."  
  
Faramir bit off the end of his candy stick and chewed on it. "Could what?" he asked between munches.  
  
Boromir said nothing in response, but turned and began studying Faramir's hair, carefully lifting a few of the long curled strands. "We just need to trim this up to-what, about here?" He placed the flat of one hand halfway between Faramir's ear and his shoulder.  
  
The younger boy shrugged. "Yes, that's how short Father's groom usually cuts it."  
  
Boromir smiled. "Oh, that'll be simple," he said, and gave Faramir's sleeve a slight tug as he stood up. "Come on."  
  
"Where?" Faramir sounded rather bewildered.  
  
"To my room," replied his brother. "I've got my kit there, and it's got a pair of nice sharp scissors in it. I can cut your hair and mine as well, and then you can go finish your book and I can practice with my new sword. We'll have the whole rest of the afternoon."  
  
Faramir frowned a little. "Won't the Governess know?"  
  
His brother laughed a little and waved his hand. "She'll be running her own errands all day, she won't be looking for us again until suppertime. By then we'll be long finished, and looking so good she'll never guess we didn't go to Mistress Darwain."  
  
"But...have you ever done this before?" Faramir inquired, although there was a hopeful gleam in his eyes.  
  
Boromir's lip twitched. "Well, no. But I saw the other soldiers cut their hair in camp. We're just taking a few inches off, right? It won't take any time at all."  
  
The child's eyes lit up at a new thought. "Maybe I'll even be able to start my book of Sindarin mythology!" he exclaimed.  
  
"Exactly," Boromir said. "I mean, it's just cutting hair. How hard can it be?"


	2. Chapter Two

Half an hour later, both boys were inside Boromir's room. It was a small room, spare of decoration or furnishings beside the boy's bed, a case full of books whose chief subjects were ancient wars and battles, and a chest of well-used arms and weapons, accumulated during a lifetime and mostly worn out or outgrown. On the walls hung naught but a few large maps heavily marked with notes and small flags pinned to the parchment denoting troop movements.  
  
In addition to its bare appearance, the chamber sported a large open window that afforded a good amount of light. At the center of the late afternoon's glow sat Faramir, patiently perched on a tall stool, a towel draped across his shoulders. His hair was dripping wet and combed out, so that it appeared even longer than before.  
  
"Now, this shouldn't take too long," announced Boromir with confidence as he emerged from his washing chamber, a bowl of water in one hand and a comb and scissors clutched in the other.  
  
"Good," Faramir replied with a broad smile. "I really want to get back to my book. I was just getting to the good part when we had to leave."  
  
Boromir chuckled as he set the bowl and implements down on a nearby table. "When it comes to you and books, _every_ part is the good part," he said fondly. "But don't worry, in no time you'll be back reading and I'll be down in the armory with my new sword. And to think we might have wasted all this time trapped in Mistress Darwain's boring old salon!" He shook his head at the horrifying thought.  
  
Faramir giggled. "I'm sure glad we thought of a way out of that!" he exclaimed.  
  
"Yes," agreed Boromir as he dipped the comb in the water and shook off a few drops. Once he was satisfied with the result, he turned to Faramir and started to gently pull the comb through the child's long ginger curls.  
  
Faramir sighed. "Why did we have to wash my hair again? It was clean already!"  
  
"Well...it's the way Mistress Darwain does it," answered the older boy, doing his best to ease the comb through the hair. "Makes it easier to cut, I suppose. I'll just wet it down again so we can get this done quickly."  
  
His brother fidgeted a little and scratched his neck. "This towel itches. It's all wet."  
  
"Well...just hold still, this won't take long. How much do you want me to cut off again?"  
  
"Um...about this much?" Faramir indicated a height just below his chin. "I think it looks funny if it's any shorter than that."  
  
"All right," Boromir said laying down the comb and picking up the scissors. They were very shiny and sharp-looking, and he reflexively opened and closed them a few times as he positioned himself at Faramir's side.  
  
"Right," he murmured again, staring at the side of Faramir's hair. He hesitated, then picked up the wet strand of hair by Faramir's left ear.  
  
Then put it down again.  
  
And stared a few silent moments more.  
  
Faramir frowned a bit and looked at him. "Boromir?"  
  
"Don't move," said Boromir mildly, placing his hand on Faramir's crown and very gently turning the boy's head so that it faced forward once more. "I'm, um, thinking."  
  
"Oh, all right," Faramir replied, in a voice that indicated he had full confidence that his big brother knew exactly what he was doing. He settled down and waited.  
  
After a few more moments of silence, Boromir muttered, "Good a place to start as any," gathered about an inch of Faramir's wet hair between his finger, and started cutting.  
  
_snip_  
  
_snip_  
  
_ snipsnip  
  
snip_  
  
The hair began to fall to the floor in long, dark curling tendrils.  
  
"This isn't so hard," Boromir observed. He was already halfway around Faramir's head.  
  
_ snip  
  
snip_  
  
"If it's so easy, can I cut your hair, Boromir?" his brother offered eagerly. "It looks like fun!"  
  
_ snipsnipsnip  
  
snip_  
  
"I don't think so, little brother," said the older boy with a smile. "You'd need a step stool to reach my hair, for one thing."  
  
_ snip_  
  
The last of the overlong hair fell from Faramir's head.  
  
Surprised, the child looked up. "Are you done already?" he asked in wonder, his blue eyes wide.  
  
The older boy was standing in front of him, surveying the results and biting his lip in thought.  
  
"I've got most if it off," he said in an appraising tone. "You wanted it to hang just below the chin, right?"  
  
Faramir nodded, his wet hair flopping. "Yes, please."  
  
His brother stood for a moment, still looking at his work, then straightened, walked back to Faramir, and began fingering the strands of hair he had started with.  
  
"I thought you were done," said Faramir, puzzled.  
  
"I am," insisted Boromir. "It just needs some evening out, that's all. And it's still a little too long."  
  
"Oh," was the disappointed reply, as Faramir scratched at his neck under the towel. "My neck's starting to itch."  
  
"Don't worry, this won't take a minute," promised his brother.  
  
He went back to the beginning again and started cutting.  
  
_ snip  
  
snipsnip  
  
snip  
_  
The cut hair continued to patter to the floor, and when Boromir paused in his work, Faramir couldn't help but look.  
  
"That sure is a lot of hair," he said in awe, bending down.  
  
"Ah, ah, please stay still, little brother," Boromir said rather quickly, placing his hands on both sides of his brother's head and carefully pulling it back to an upright position. "I'm trying to keep everything, um, even."  
  
"How much are you cutting off?" asked the child as one hand snaked out from under the towel and began to feel around his ear. "It feels like an awful lot..."  
  
"No, no, it's fine," Boromir assured him as he lightly took Faramir's hand and pushed it away from his head. "Don't touch it, you'll, um, disturb it."  
  
"What's wrong?" inquired Faramir, suspicion creeping into his voice.  
  
"Nothing's _wrong_," insisted the older sibling as he grabbed the comb and wetted it again. "I've just got to even it out. Your hair's drying and the curls are making it look all crooked."  
  
"If you keep making my hair wet, I'm going to get a cold," warned Faramir as Boromir pulled the wet comb through his hair.  
  
"You're not going to get a cold," was Boromir's somewhat testy response. "Now just...just be still, this has to look as if Mistress Darwain did it."  
  
Faramir sighed and sat as still as he could while Boromir returned to his work, the older boy muttering to himself as he plied the scissors.  
  
_ snipsnip  
  
snip_  
  
"Now this just has to match that part..."  
  
_ snip_  
  
"Hmmm. This needs to be shorter..."  
  
_ snip  
  
snipsnipsnip_  
  
"Still a little too long, there..."  
  
_ snip  
  
snipsnip_  
  
"Hmmmmmmmmmm."  
  
_ snip_  
  
"Boromir?"  
  
"Yes?" said Boromir distractedly, still snipping away.  
  
"Didn't you already cut that part at the back of my head? Twice?"  
  
Boromir coughed. "It didn't look right."  
  
Faramir turned his head. "What's the matter with it?"  
  
"Nothing!" was the quick reply, as Boromir once more gently pushed Faramir's head into a forward-looking position. "Nothing. Just relax, I'm almost done."  
  
"Can I see?" inquired the younger boy eagerly.  
  
"No! Er, I mean, I don't have a mirror. When I'm done you can look in the glass in my bathing chamber."  
  
Faramir frowned. "I want to look _now,_" he announced, and began to slide off the stool.  
  
Gently, Boromir, grasped his brother's shoulders and pulled him back up onto his perch. "Just a few more minutes, little brother, then I'll be done, I promise," he said firmly. "Where's that candy you were eating?"  
  
Faramir looked at the table beside them and pointed as best he could with his hands covered by the large towel. "It's right there."  
  
Swiftly Boromir picked up the sticky green candy and handed it to his brother. "Here, just finish that and I'll be done before you know it."  
  
Faramir worked one hand free of the towel, took the candy and studied it. "It's got fuzz on it now."  
  
Boromir sighed, plucked the candy from Faramir's grasp, swished it around in the bowl of water, and placed it back in the child's little hand. "There, it's clean."  
  
The younger boy seemed unimpressed. "Isn't that the water you were washing your dirty old comb in?"  
  
"Well, I can hardly go wash it in the Great River at the moment," was Boromir's somewhat irritated response. "Now please, be still, or there will be no time to have fun before dinner."  
  
At this thought, Faramir grew quiet, and as he had no desire to put his candy stick in his mouth any more, contented himself with breaking it into increasingly smaller pieces as his brother worked on his hair. He did notice, however, that Boromir had stopped talking to himself, but he wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad sign.  
  
_ snip  
  
snip  
  
snipsnip  
  
snip  
  
snipsnipsnip_  
  
There was a long moment of silence.  
  
_ snip  
  
snipsnip  
  
snip_  
  
Faramir began to notice that his head was feeling much lighter and cooler than before.  
  
_ snip  
  
snip  
  
snipsnip_  
  
Boromir wetted the comb again and slicked down Faramir's locks.  
  
"My comb's not _that_ dirty," he muttered as he returned to his work.  
  
_ snip  
  
snip_  
  
"Hmmmm..."  
  
_ snipsnip_  
  
There was another long moment of silence.  
  
_ snip  
  
snipsnip_  
  
And another.  
  
_ snip_  
  
At last, Faramir noticed that his brother was standing behind him, not moving or saying anything for a very long time.  
  
"Boromir? Are you done?"  
  
There was no reply.  
  
"Can I see now?"  
  
Still nothing.  
  
"Boromir?"  
  
Unsure as to whether Boromir was still going to cut his hair, Faramir remained still until his brother finally spoke.  
  
"Faramir?" He sounded rather anxious.  
  
The younger boy wasn't sure he liked that at all. "Yes?"  
  
A few moments of quiet passed.  
  
"I love you, Faramir."  
  
This was not at all what Faramir had been expecting to hear, and he scowled in bewilderment.  
  
"Um, I love you, too, Boromir," he said. "Are you done? Can I see my hair now?"  
  
After a moment, the very damp towel was slowly pulled from Faramir's shoulders.  
  
"Yes," was Boromir's answer, in a dull tone even more worrisome than before. "Yes, you can see your hair now."  
  
Some distance away, two charwomen who were scrubbing the steps of the palace suddenly stopped in their chores and looked up at each other in surprise. After a moment, one of them spoke.  
  
"Did you just hear some poor child scream?"


	3. Chapter Three

Denethor sighed wearily as he plodded up the road approaching Minas Tirith on his finely decorated steed, his entourage of courtiers and guards alongside him. The warm breeze stirred his long, curling, gray-streaked black hair as he lifted his head and beheld the gleaming White City looming before him, glowing in the late afternoon sun. A smile creased his face, lined as it was with fatigue, as he envisioned greeting his sons, enjoying a fine dinner, and a good, warm bed after so long on the road.  
  
The brilliant call of silver trumpets sang through the air as he rode to the Great Gate, the metal medallions on his horse's bridle and blanket jangling with each tired step. With a chorus of monstrous creaks, rattles and clanks, the Gate was unlocked and drawn open, and soon the air was filled with the clopping of hooves as they entered the City and began the lengthy ride to the top level.  
  
There was a small crowd gathered to see the Steward return home, and he smiled and nodded as he passed through the courtyard. Once past the small throngs, however, he turned his mind to more mundane matters as they moved through the streets. It had been a tiresome journey, full of tedious rides and days of meeting with Rohan's King and numerous Rohan dignitaries, nobles, and advisors. The talk had all been full of concern for Mordor's growing might, and the beauty of the summer day had done little to lift the heaviness now pressing Denethor's heart.  
  
As he traveled along, he mulled over the happenings of the visit, the mound of papers, treaties and official documents in his pack that would need tending as soon as possible, the troublesome news he had heard of Orcs stirring along the borders of Rohan and Gondor. His full attention did not really return to his surroundings until he reached the upper level, and rode into the courtyard of the Citadel.  
  
There was the usual assembly of servants, nobles, and citizens there to greet him, standing in a loose crowd around the Fountain of the White Tree. Denethor blinked, straightened in his saddle, and searched the small throng, looking expectantly for his two sons.  
  
Ah, there they were, standing with their governess and smiling at him as he passed by. He smiled back as well, very pleased and relieved to see them well. Boromir, he noted with great pride, looked his usual strong, handsome self in his cadet's uniform, his blonde hair shining like gold in the sunlight. 'What a splendid soldier he will make,' the Steward thought to himself, nodding to his heir as he went by. And by Boromir's side, of course, was Faramir, smiling eagerly at his father, his large blue eyes shining with joy, and his hair-  
  
Denethor smiled at Faramir as well, but he could not keep a puzzled gleam from his eyes as he studied his youngest son's hair. It was the fashion in Gondor for men and boys to wear their hair long, a trend Faramir had never ignored or protested. Yet here the child was, smiling up at him, with hardly more than a few inches of hair anywhere on his head. Of his normally abundant curls little could be seen, save for a slight upturning of the ends belonging to the longest strands which barely touched the tips of his ears. In addition, the style was quite blunt and choppy, and not becoming at all.  
  
Before he realized it, Denethor was fully past the welcoming group, his horse's steps now turning to the stables. Denethor pursed his lips as he guided his mount along and wondered more about what curious events must have taken place in his absence. The explanation, he surmised, would prove most interesting.  
  
A quiet dinner followed the Steward's return, during which he listened to his sons' revelations of all they had accomplished while he was away. His attention was weary but sincere; at least the talk did not concern politics or war strategy. He commended Boromir for being such an apt pupil of the arms master, and nodded at Faramir's proud recounting of his progress with his tutor. In turn, he answered their questions about Rohan and its court. No other matters were discussed.  
  
Later that evening, the Steward sat in his study, lit by numerous candles and lamps as he made an attempt to set in order the large amount of information brought from Rohan. Despite the warmth of the day, a fire roared in the room's large fireplace, lending further illumination. Every once in a while, his sharp, dark eyes would flicker over to the massive wooden door leading into the chamber. The door stood slightly ajar, and his behavior suggested the expectation that an eventual visitor would soon darken its stoop. Or rather, pair of visitors.  
  
The last glimmerings of twilight were fading from the sky, and Denethor was deep in a rather tedious document concerning the trade of various goods with Rohan, when a double knock sounded firmly on the door. Not at all surprised, Denethor lifted his head and said in a stern voice, "Come."  
  
As the Steward had anticipated, Boromir slowly entered the large room, his expression somber and respectful. Behind him was Faramir, holding tightly onto one of Boromir's hands as they walked into the chamber, his own look somewhat more anxious.  
  
"Father?" said Boromir, stopping before Denethor's large desk and talking in a hushed tone. "I know you are very busy, but Faramir and I need to...to speak with you."  
  
Denethor studied them both gravely before laying down his quill and patiently folding his hands. He appeared to be trying not to smile. "Of course, my son," he said. "May I assume this has something to do with your brother's new appearance?"  
  
The older boy shifted a little uncomfortably and glanced down at Faramir. The child still seemed nervous, but his gave Boromir a firm nod, his head held bravely up despite his fear, encouraging his brother to continue.  
  
Boromir's lip twitched as he looked back at Denethor. "Er, yes, Father, it does. Faramir and I...have..." He paused and swallowed. "We have something we need to confess to you."  
  
Denethor barely moved as he gazed at them both. "Very well," he said, his voice not so stern as before. "You may proceed. I promise to give you both my full attention."  
  
For a moment, Boromir stared at his father, his green eyes only now betraying a hint of anxiety. Then he swallowed again and quietly said, "Yes, sir," before recounting, in soft but steady tones, the complete tale of how Faramir had come to have nearly all of his hair cut from his head.  
  
"In the end, Mistress Darwain was able to fix the worst of it," Boromir said as he finished the tale. During its telling, he had looked often at Faramir with a countenance wreathed in deep regret, but now lifted his gaze to face their father. Faramir's expression had remained uncertain but resolute as he squeezed his brother's hand now and then for support. "She thinks it will grow back all right, and had some ideas on how we could fix it so it won't look so bad. Then she cut my hair, as Lady Allaneth intended, and it was all over."  
  
During the tale, Denethor had sat silently, hands folded, listening intently, his eyes darting back and forth between Boromir and Faramir. No shadow of anger had crossed his face; it had maintained the same stern cast throughout the entire narration.  
  
Boromir solemnly faced his father, his tone sincere and humble. "We have both talked about it, and...and we know it was wrong of us to disobey Lady Allaneth. We thought the most honorable thing to do would be to come and speak to you tonight, and face the consequences for our actions, as men of Gondor should."  
  
When Boromir had finished, both he and his brother waited, each holding their breath without really realizing it.  
  
At length, Denethor stirred. "A most interesting adventure," he said finally, regarding the two boys. "Tell me, Boromir, have you done as you wished, and practiced with the new sword I gave you?"  
  
At this unexpected question, Boromir blinked a little. "Well...yes, sir," he admitted. "I used it during my lesson today with the arms master. It is a wonderful sword, and I thank you for it." He hesitated. "But...I confess, it wasn't as much fun to use it as I thought it would be, yesterday."  
  
Denethor nodded, and looked over at Faramir. "And you, Faramir, have you read the tale you were longing to finish?"  
  
Faramir shook his head. "No, Father," he conceded. "I, um, I haven't really felt like reading."  
  
A small smile tugged at Denethor's lips. "I am sure that will change," he declared, before drawing a deep breath and settling back in his chair. "Boromir, Faramir, you must know that I am quite pleased that you have found the courage to admit this transgression freely to me, instead of my having to hear of it from Lady Allaneth or Mistress Darwain."  
  
Two small voices replied "Yes, sir."  
  
The dark eyes moved back and forth between the two boys as Denethor's voice grew slightly sharper. "And you must know that I am quite _dis_pleased at your disobedience of Lady Allaneth, who acts by my authority over you both when I am gone."  
  
Two voices repeated "Yes, sir," much smaller this time.  
  
"I understand that there are times when one would far prefer the pleasant activities of leisure over the less agreeable ones of duty," the Steward went on, his tone never softening. "As my sons, you must learn to subdue those preferences, and fulfill what has been asked of you, even at the cost of your own desires. This is not the last time such a sacrifice will be asked of you both, nor will it be the most difficult. I expect that you will each meet this challenge more successfully when it is next laid before you." He paused, and gave them each a very keen, penetrating glance. "Will you not?"  
  
Boromir and Faramir looked their father steadily in the eye and chorused "Yes, Father", speaking the words as the earnest promise they all understood them to be.  
  
After studying them both without speaking for a moment, Denethor unfolded his hands and picked up one of the documents before him. "Very well," he said in a much lighter voice, following a short cough. "This matter will be discussed no more. I shall see you again shortly when my work is concluded here."  
  
He turned his eyes to the parchment in his hand. Boromir and Faramir stayed where they were, hand in hand, exchanging rather uncertain glances.  
  
Finally, Boromir cleared his throat. "Father?"  
  
Denethor did not seem at all surprised when he looked up. "Yes, Boromir?"  
  
His handsome young face slightly contorted with confusion, Boromir looked down at Faramir before facing the Steward once more. "Is there nothing else you wish to...I mean to say, is there nothing more to come from this, truly?"  
  
His father tilted his head back a little. "Do you mean to ask, my son, am I not going to punish you?"  
  
The young man started a little to hear it put in such forthright terms, then nodded as soon as he had collected himself. "We are prepared to accept it, sir," Boromir managed to say, his voice only a little less than perfectly steady. Beside him, Faramir nodded firmly.  
  
Denethor laid the paper back down on his desk and folded his hands once more, his expression considerably softer than before. "It is a brave question, Boromir, and one that gives me great hope for you both," he replied. "But as to the punishment for your disobedience, it has already been dealt out, by yourselves."  
  
Both boys gazed at him in bewilderment.  
  
In answer, Denethor looked at his youngest son. "Faramir, your punishment is to bear your brother's tonsorial experiment upon your head, and behold it every time you face a mirror, until such time as it grows to a more suitable length."  
  
A chagrined look came over Faramir's face, and he gave his sire a nod of understanding as one corner of his lip twitched.  
  
The Steward then directed his piercing gaze to his heir. "Boromir, your punishment is to behold your handiwork every time you are with your brother, and recall the circumstances that led to his appearance."  
  
Boromir's expression was very similar to that of his younger brother. He also inclined his head in acceptance, and murmured "Yes, Father."  
  
Denethor sighed and straightened a little in his chair. "The time it should take for Faramir's hair to reach a proper length - I imagine this will be around four months - should be of sufficient duration for the lesson of your punishment to be absorbed you both. At its end, provided I am satisfied with your progress, you shall receive the gifts I have brought for you from Rohan."  
  
The two boys exchanged somewhat disappointed looks, but they each appeared fully aware of why these presents were not bestowed now. They faced their father, and Boromir bowed slightly, saying in a serious voice, "We understand, Father."  
  
Denethor nodded, and his eyes softened. "And if you do exceptionally well in minding your behavior," he added, "you shall hear the tale of the day your aunts, my sisters, performed a similar experiment upon my own willing head."  
  
Green and blue eyes both widened in surprise, but before either of the children could ask, Denethor held up a quieting finger, his face set in lines just as stern as before.  
  
"But _only_ if you are both obedient, and properly mind both your governess and I in all things," he said firmly. The softness still gleamed in his dark eyes, however. "Now you may go, and I will see you both later on this evening."  
  
Boromir and Faramir then smiled for the first time since entering their father's chamber, and executed a pair of perfect, formal bows.  
  
"Yes, Father," they said in unison, and still hand in hand walked quickly from the room, their steps considerably lighter than when they entered.  
  
Denethor watched them leave, then returned to his mountain of paperwork, now with a small smile gracing his countenance.  
  
The next day found the Steward consistently busy with the typical council meetings and duty-tending that always accompanied the return from a lengthy journey. Denethor, however, did find time to seek his sons out, just to see if his suspicions to their activities proved true.  
  
He found Boromir fully engaged in sword practice with the arms master, plying his magnificent new weapon with great zeal. Denethor observed unnoticed from a distance, but even from there he could see the broad smile of joy on his eldest son's sweat-streaked face as he skillfully swung the blade.  
  
Denethor nodded, and set off to find Faramir.  
  
The youngest boy was discovered in his chamber, curled up on the comfortably cushioned window-seat. Faramir sat bathed in sunlight as he finished his book, the atrocious haircut upon his head forgotten for the moment. So thoroughly absorbed was he in the tale that he failed to notice his father peeping discreetly through the half-open door, just long enough to answer his curiosity. Once Denethor saw Faramir reading his book, a familiar expression of quiet enjoyment on his young face, the Steward silently slipped away and left the child undisturbed.  
  
Just as quietly, Denethor began the long journey back to his study, to the papers and problems that seemed now to be never-ending. But for now the Steward's mind was on lighter things, on his sons and their promising fidelity to the ideals of courage and honor, and on far older memories created long before he had shouldered his current heavy burdens.  
  
An observer might wonder what it was in his recollections that caused Denethor to hesitate in his step, and reach one slender hand up to cautiously feel the long, curling hair flowing down the back of his head as if to assure himself it was all still there. But the memory, whatever it was, seemed to last but a moment; then the Steward's step grew firmer, and he continued his walk back to his duties, leaving his sons to enjoy their carefree days while they lasted, in peace.  
  
THE END  
  
Author's Note: I have no idea whether Denethor actually had sisters or not. I thought I read somewhere that he did, but I couldn't find any firm information on whether Ecthelion II had any children other than Denethor. Apologies if this is not accurate!  
  
Thanks for reading! Reviews always welcome!  
  
Sue :)


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